Chapter 30
Thirty
Silver banners cascade from the banquet hall’s vaulted ceiling like moonlit waterfalls.
They ripple with every shift of the air, shimmering above walls swathed in gauzy silks, artfully pinned to mimic waves crashing along an unseen shore.
The scent of spice and roasted meat mingles with candle wax and lavender oil.
Each banquet table gleams under candelabras shaped like coral, their branches dripping with crystals.
Pale blue silk covers every surface, embroidered with silver thread so fine it almost glows.
Every person in the room is dressed to impress the gods themselves—or at the very least, the queen who sits like one.
At the far end of the hall, raised on a crystal dais that resembles frozen waves mid-break, sits Queen Delphara Rothmore.
Her gown is the color of the Caribbean, layered in translucent fabrics that shimmer like frost. Her bodice clings to her waist, stitched with sapphires and wave-carved bone, the crest of Cups a purplish blue and painted onto the fabric like a bruise.
Her crown is a twisted reef of silver and polished gems, jagged and glinting.
And around her pale throat coils a chain of sapphires so dark they look black.
Her expression is serene, serpentine. A queen sculpted from the sea’s coldest depths.
A few steps down, seated just beneath her on a smaller platform, is Victor.
His throne is simpler, though still gilded.
He sits straight, but not stiff, his expression neutral in that way only people with terrible secrets can manage.
His hand rests on the arm of his chair, within easy reach of Delphara, though I get the feeling that he hasn’t touched her in ages.
Laid out around them, painted in silver and positioned like art, are women.
They’re naked and motionless. Their bodies serve as platters—shoulders bearing fruits, bellies holding mounds of carved meat and cheeses, thighs spread for crystal dishes of figs, honey, and decanters of wine.
Every inch of them arranged for display.
For use. The women in this castle are always being used for something.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Alder murmurs at my side.
I force a smile, aware of the weight of every glance in the room, every wine-glossed whisper rippling behind us.
“It’s really something,” I say, managing to make my voice sound awed, just a little breathless, like I’ve been swept off my feet by the splendor of it all.
Alder’s hand settles at the small of my back, possessive, and I suppress the shudder that runs through me. Instead, I smile a little wider and tilt my head up toward him like I’m grateful for the attention.
I’m playing my part. The scared, overwhelmed woman who came crawling back. The woman who tried to run but realized she couldn’t survive without her powerful, perfect man.
His hand presses a little firmer, fingers splaying across bare skin. He pushes me deeper into the banquet hall with the casual command of someone who assumes the room belongs to him. After all, these people know him as Lord Alderic Lockhart, the Queen’s new plaything. And I am his chosen accessory.
I straighten, spine prickling as more faces turn toward us.
My dress clings to every curve, midnight-blue velvet catching the light in ways that make it look almost wet. The high neckline elegantly skims my throat, but the draped back falls just above my tailbone, leaving most of my back exposed to the chill and to Alder’s hand.
I hadn’t had time to have a dress made. Of course I hadn’t. No one can handcraft an evening gown in an afternoon. Not that Alder even realizes this doesn’t match the maroon coat I took from the wardrobe he’s pretending is his.
One of the noblewomen who’ve been quietly planning a revolution beneath the kitchen offered me this dress the color of crushed sapphires.
Sylvie sewed lace panels into the sides, sheer and slightly scandalous, to accommodate my figure and make it mine.
Because bodies aren’t mistakes to be reshaped—they’re all different, all beautiful—and clothes should rise to meet them, not the other way around.
It fits like power. Like the first victory in a war I intend to win.
We move slowly past jeweled collars and polished smiles. Noblewomen drip with diamonds. Noblemen sweat in brocade. Every gaze flicks from Alder to me and back again, as if they’re deciding whether I’m a trophy or a threat.
Alder leans down. “Smile, Gemma. You look like you’re planning a murder.”
“Maybe I am,” I say, voice sugary. “Careful where you stand.”
He chuckles, but his grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Delphara rises, and the room stills. She lifts a goblet in one hand, the wine inside glinting like fresh blood.
My stomach twists. Knowing Delphara, it might be.
“To the Kingdom of Cups,” she says, her voice low and mellifluous, woven through with something sharp. “To the return of glory. To the machines that sleep no longer. To the gods who demand our devotion. And to the offering that will awaken the land once and for all.”
Applause erupts like thunder cracking through the room. Silver goblets clink, laughter bubbles, and the Queen’s smile turns wicked as she basks in it.
Victor rises slowly beside her, goblet in hand. His expression is all polished civility, but there’s a slight tremor in his arm, a tightness in his jaw. “To the cost of progress.” He lifts his glass. “And how steep a cost it is.”
The applause that follows is more hesitant, less certain. But Delphara’s smile doesn’t waver. Instead, she turns toward Victor and rests her fingers against his wrist.
And just like Clara’s sacrifice, it begins.
A glow unfurls beneath her touch, and if I hadn’t seen it before, I would assume it was a flash of light off gemstones. Sea-blue dances across Victor’s skin, pulses once, twice, then melts into silver. It flashes like a blade before sinking into him and disappearing.
He stiffens, blinks, then he smiles like nothing happened.
But I know better now. I know that smile. I’ve worn it myself. Obedience disguised as devotion.
Delphara leans forward and murmurs something only he can hear. He nods.
My stomach sours again.
Movement catches the corner of my eye. One of the masked guards has approached Alder. I watch, careful not to shift too suddenly, as the guard passes him a folded piece of parchment.
Alder opens it. Reads it. His expression doesn’t change, but his focus moves from the note to Delphara.
“Gemma, sweetheart, I have to go attend to—” Alder begins to tuck the note into his pocket and walk away when a man in a seafoam green brocade sidles up beside him.
“Lord Lockhart,” the man says. “I was hoping to speak with you about the new terms from Pentacles. I have been told you’ve brought a rather compelling counterproposal.”
Alder slips seamlessly into his role, that easy smile lighting his face as he extends his hand. “Of course,” he says. “Always happy to discuss business. Especially when it’s profitable.”
Whatever was in that note, wherever Alder was going to disappear to, it has to wait. Because now, it’s time.
Alder is laughing at something the man beside him said, charming and effortless in his golden silk jacket. He’s glowing under the chandeliers, every inch the lord of the realm.
I smooth my hands down my gown, letting the confidence I don’t completely feel straighten my spine and lift my chin as my stomach does cartwheels.
I excuse myself from Alder’s side with a smile that feels almost real and speed walk toward the refreshments table.
One of the naked women lies artfully across the tablecloth, grapes cascading over her hips, a platter of cheeses perched delicately on her thighs.
Beside her, mercifully clothed, stands an attendant in a crisp, pale-blue dress, looking far too composed for someone literally working a buffet made of bodies.
She perks up the moment she sees me. “Wine, my lady?”
I offer her my goblet and channel every unhinged rom-com heroine who’s ever done something insane in the name of a plan. “To the top, please.”
She pours carefully and stops when the glass is halfway full.
“More.”
She blinks. “Of course.” Another inch. She tips the carafe again. The wine rises, dark, almost black beneath the lights.
“Keep going.”
Her brows lift slightly, but she obliges.
“More.”
Now the wine’s right at the rim, threatening to slosh with the slightest breath. Perfect.
I take the goblet with both hands, careful as a bomb technician. “Thank you.”
She stares at me like I’m already halfway to unhinged. I smile. It sure is starting to feel that way.
Alder’s deep in conversation with Lord Seafoam from Trade and Brocade, flashing that practiced grin like it’s currency.
I hover a beat. One breath. Two. Then I move.
It’s time to make a mess.
I aim for maximum damage, lift my skirt dramatically, and trip.
My slipper happens to catch on the smooth, polished floor. My arm happens to flail with theatrical flair. My goblet happens to launch forward like a missile. And wine happens to sail through the air in a slow, glorious arc.
Gasps erupt across the room like fireworks.
Alder jerks back with a curse as the scarlet wine splashes across his gold silk, blooming like a fresh wound across his chest.
I suck in a breath, hands fluttering like I might actually want to fix the problem I one hundred percent created on purpose. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry! I am so clumsy!”
A nearby noblewoman titters behind her fan. Someone snorts into their wine. Delphara, from her throne of crystalline judgment, lifts one perfectly arched brow.
Alder stands there, dripping and furious, arms out like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “It’s fine,” he says, teeth clenched. “I’ll change.”
I clutch his arm, dabbing uselessly at the stain with a napkin I collected from a passing attendant. “It’s my fault. I feel awful.”
“You should,” he mutters.
“Come,” I say brightly. “Let me help you out of that ruined suit.”